


Souvenirs

by MysticPuma



Series: Sherlock One-shots [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Pining, Post Reichenbach, Realisation of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:26:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysticPuma/pseuds/MysticPuma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's nothing left for me, of days that used to be… They're just a memory among my souvenirs… Some letters tied with blue, a photograph or two. I see a rose from you, among my souvenirs. A few more tokens rest, within my treasure chest. And though they do their best to give my consolation… I count them all apart, and as the teardrops start… I find a broken heart… Among my souvenirs."</p>
<p>It's been two weeks since Sherlock died. John brings out his chest of treasures, and delves through them. He realises, as he sifts, that the feelings he had were more than friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Souvenirs

John sat alone in his room. Again. He dare not leave it. It's one of the only places that doesn't have a ghost hanging over it. His ghost. Sherlock.

The flat is full to the brim of memories. The sofa, when John first came in to see Sherlock with three nicotine patches on, having texted him, called him from the other side of London, just to borrow his phone and text a killer.

The smiley face on the wall full of holes, from whenever Sherlock got too bored.

The make-shift lab he'd set up to analyse data and samples when he couldn't be bothered to go to Bart's.

The scratch on the table that Sherlock had never fully explained the reason for.

The chair. His chair. In the first few days, when John still sat in the room, people would come to try and comfort him. Harry, Greg, even Mycroft. John made them sit in his chair, and he would stand, his arm rested on the back of Sherlock's chair protectively. Mycroft had noticed…

\---

_"John, he's not coming back…" he said._

_"Don't-! I don't care…"_

_"John, just because it was the chair he used to sit in, that doesn't mean…" he tried to get up and move to it. John kicked him in the shin._

_"STAY AWAY!"_

_He spent that night in a cell._

\---

That chair was precious. The amount of times Sherlock had curled up into an inhumanly small ball to think…

John sighed. Even when he wasn't in the room, he still thought of it all. The memories, the little ghostly glimpse he'd see of his best friend.

He stood and walked slowly, precisely, carefully to the wardrobe. He pulled the door open and looked down on the small box. He bent to pick up the box, and set it on his small desk. He sat, and unclasped the lock of the box. The lid swung open, and John stared into the box of tokens. Trivial items. John imagined what Sherlock would say : "Sentimental value… I don't understand it, really. Why do you keep these things, John? They're just useless trinkets…"

But they were more than that to John.

The first things he pulled out was the small collection of envelopes, tied together with a blue ribbon. Nine in all, each with Sherlock's name written on them. John pulled gently at the ribbon, and it fell away with a small flutter. He spread out the nine nearly identical letters. Only nearly identical because they each had tear-stains in different places. The tears always fell, but never in the same place.

Then John pulled out a stack of photos, tied with the same blue ribbon. He spread them on the table as well. There were only twelve. It had been rare that he could either force Sherlock to pose for a photo, or that he could trick him. He would usually be found out if he was trying the latter. Sherlock wasn't stupid.

It was easy to tell which were the forced, and which were caught-out. There were only three that were of Sherlock in a natural position. The rest were poses that reminded John of his little habits. Like when he would flick up his collar just to look cool.

John picked up a photo. The best one. Mrs Hudson and John had dragged Sherlock to the country for a small break from cases. Mrs Hudson had then badgered and badgered them for a picture of Sherlock kissing John's cheek. She still didn't get that they weren't gay. John protested, as did Sherlock, but neither of them could truly deny Mrs Hudson that one thing after all she'd done for them. So they gave in, and Sherlock had planted a small kiss on John's cheek, while Mrs Hudson held up the camera to snap the photo. John had gone bright red. John hadn't noticed before, but Sherlock seemed to be fighting a smile in the picture, an odd occurrence. John shook himself from his reverie, and placed the picture back on the table.

John's heart stopped at the sight of the next item. He stared at it, and, with a small tear rolling down his cheek, remembered the events that lead to it being there.

\---

_John sighed._

_"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, the slightest hint of concern in his smooth baritone voice._

_"Nothing." John said, forcing a smile._

_"Don't lie." Sherlock muttered emotionlessly._

_"Oh, you wouldn't understand."_

_"So? Isn't it you that says it's just nice to get it out?" Sherlock asked, although it was obvious he didn't understand the concept._

_"Well… It's Valentine's Day tomorrow…" John muttered. "And I'm single. Again."_

_"What happened to Sarah?" Sherlock asked. Of course. John hadn't actually told Sherlock that Sarah had dumped him two days ago…_

_"She dumped me."_

_"Oh." Sherlock's face showed none of the sympathy that he felt for his friend. "Sorry to hear that."_

_"No you're not."_

_The next day, John got out of bed, and trudged down the stairs, ready at any moment for Sherlock to jump him with a new case. But nothing happened. The flat was quiet, silent even, except for the sound of John pouring his tea. He wasn't hungry._

_He spent the morning watching TV, when it suddenly occurred to him that Sherlock hadn't even appeared once all day. John's brow furrowed in confusion._

_Suddenly, the door slammed._

_"Sherlock?"_

_"That was ridiculous… Why do people do this? It's so much hassle." Sherlock's voice rang out. He was talking to himself, but John didn't care._

_"What are you on about?" he asked, not looking away from the TV. A tap on his shoulder made him turn around and stop._

_"Happy Valentine's Day, John." Sherlock said, thrusting a single rose at him. John couldn't help but smile._

\---

A small smile crept onto his face as he recalled it. He'd taken the rose to be crystallised, so it wouldn't die, and had then tied a small blue ribbon in a bow around it. He told Sherlock it was to mock him about his little show of affection, but it meant something a little different in John's heart. The small blue bow upon the frozen rose was the most precious of John's trinkets.

More tears spilled from his eyes as he gazed over the small collection. He touched them each in turn, the memories flooding back into his mind with a rush of pain, a raging torrent he tried to keep bottled. But none of the tokens within John's treasure chest of memories could possibly give John any small amount of consolation.

He brought the rest of the small items from the box. There were two compositions by Sherlock than John had stolen one night from the crammed music stand.

A small postcard Sherlock had sent him when he'd been away on a case, while John had the flu stared up at him from the bottom of the box. The only words written on it, except the address, were : I'm lost without my blogger. A simple enough sentence.

As John picked out the postcard, he found himself wishing. Wishing that it could have a hidden meaning. Knowing it didn't, couldn't, wouldn't… But that was too sentimental for Sherlock. Too emotional. Too nice.

And John realised, with a heavy heart, that all that was left in the emptied box now, all that would ever go back in, was a broken heart. He'd been blind to how much Sherlock had meant to him, and now, staring at that message, he realised.

He had loved Sherlock. He had loved him with all his heart.

And now he simply found a broken heart, among his souvenirs from the best time of his life.


End file.
